NY 7A 39151
by jsfan4ever
Summary: A new casefile, set in November of 2001. JS.
1. Prologue

_Well, to be honest, it's been so long that I'm not even sure there are still people out there reading JS fics. But anyway, today seemed like a fitting day to post this... so here it is. This case is set in November of 2001, during Jack and Sam's affair. It's a JS fic, but I have also tried to portray Danny and Vivian as more than just secondary characters. Because the story is set in 2001, I couldn't write it without making it a post 911 fic. I wasn't in New York when it happened and I don't claim to know the exact pain, trauma, and fallout caused by the events of 911. Any mistakes are therefore mine._

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**NY 7A-39151**

_**Prologue **_

Fulton Street was as quiet as a street could be expected to be at this late hour in Manhattan. Thick, dark grey clouds blocked most of the moonlight, the misty atmosphere resembling the gloomy one of a Hitchcock movie. Clasping and unclasping his hands nervously, the young man who stood at the corner of Fulton and Nassau adjusted the scarf he'd hurriedly thrown around his neck in the hope of warding off the cold. He wore a dark suit jacket and leather gloves that masked a wrist tattoo, and his short, unkempt brown hair made him look younger than his twenty-six years.

"God, I'm so sorry," the other man said. "They picked me up when I got out, there was nothing I could do."

"Phil—"

"They just, uh, threw some money at me, said I had to get rid of you." He fidgeted nervously with the buttons of his coat. "How the hell did they find you?"

The young man with the scarf let a joyless smile dance across his lips. "I ran into IV yesterday. They were going to hunt me anyway, right?" He waited a moment, asked wearily, "You gonna kill me here, Phil?"

There was a moment's silence. "No." The voice was quiet, but determined. "I'm not gonna kill you. But, uh, take this." He handed over a stack of dollars, and along with it came a small key.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not that guy anymore," Phil shook his head. "Take it. I'll keep them away for as long as I can. You need to leave the city. Find Carla."

The young man's eyes shot up at the mention of the name. His next whisper was raw and shook with emotion. "Do you know where she is?"

"Memphis. I want you to make sure she's fine. Protect her." The man named Phil paused, added, "Take care of my sister and love her the way you once did. That's all I'm asking for."

The two individuals observed each other for a long moment, perhaps trying to remember what the other looked like before parting.

"Good luck, David."

"Mark," a quiet mutter corrected. "Call me Mark."

Shaking his head with palpable grief, his friend shook his hand briefly and turned around, peeking discreetly at his watch before walking away. It was nearly one in the morning, and a light rain began to fall as Mark veered to the left and hastily headed for the next block. Reaching his destination, he waited under a red awning for the automatic doors of a building to let him in, and as he entered the hotel his footsteps were cushioned by thick velvet carpet. Walking past the security camera with his head down, he called the elevator and waited to be taken to the second floor. Once there, he took a deep breath, the emotional stress of the past few hours weighing heavily on his shoulders, then he fished out the key his friend Phil had given him and looked around for room 227.

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Exactly one floor above, the key to room 327 had been placed on the bedside table closest to the window. It was as quiet as in the hours before dawn, and two people slept obliviously, their minds in a place beyond the material boundaries of reality. There was a faint light inside the room serving as a reminder that no place in the city is ever completely dark, even in the dead of night with the obscuring shades drawn. A few personal possessions were scattered around the room, ranging from reading glasses to a watch, clothes, and numerous vanilla folders on the table; but these everyday items had clearly been randomly dispersed, not deliberately arranged.

When the door to room 227 banged closed, one of the occupants of room 327 stirred, opening an eye as his mind tried to separate reality from the fuzzy dreams he'd been having. Ignoring the blinking green light of his cell phone on the bedside table, he noted with relief that the digital clock read 1:02 and, rewrapping his arm around the warm body curled up against him, quietly drifted back to sleep.

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"We got him, boss."

The voice, when it spoke, was gruff and betrayed the man's Texan origins. Instead of turning around, Ben Marquez took out a cigarette and contemplated the darkness around him, tugging at the sleeves of the leather jacket he'd bought downtown the year before. Nights were cold in November, perhaps colder this year than the last, with a bitter breeze that cut through cloth and skin. Still, it felt good to be back in New York. He'd been absent far too long.

"Was anyone watching?"

"No."

Leaning against the balcony's steel railing, Ben released a satisfied breath. The job had once again been well done. Most would have considered it a fortunate coincidence, or even luck, but he knew that more than favorable circumstances, patience and persistence were at work here. His men were the best at what they did, and that was, they were the best at what he'd taught them. He had built an empire from brutality and fear, and his men had mastered both the convenience of lies and the delicate art of bribery.

"Didn't think something like that would happen after all this time," Ben said.

"Yeah. Got lucky it was him."

Ben nodded. Still watching the world at his feet, he ordered, "Lock David down in the basement."

The man behind him did not move, watching instead as Ben brought the cigarette to his lips, lit it, and sent a puff of smoke into the chilly air of November. Ben Marquez was one of those who believed power was tangible; that you could feel it in the wisps of smoke and touch it with your bare hands.

When he sensed the other man's hesitation, Ben slowly turned around. Save for thick black leather gloves, Harv, aka number VII, looked little like the criminal Ben knew him to be. His jeans were faded and a grey Spurs sweatshirt hung loosely around his shoulders, conjuring anything but the image of a cold-blooded assassin.

"What about III?"

At the mention of the one who'd betrayed him in the worse possible way, Ben felt cold rage seep through him. He was fair to his men, had always rewarded good results, glorified sacrifices, and encouraged initiatives. That they would go to such lengths to deceive him both surprised and disgusted him. And not because he particularly enjoyed the idea, but because he had to keep his men in line, he'd make III pay for his betrayal.

"Find him. And when you do…"

There was a small moment's silence. "Boss?"

"Kill him."


	2. Chapter 1

_Ok, there you go. First chapter. Enjoy : )_

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_**Chapter 1**_

_Wednesday, November 14__th__, 2001_

On Wednesday morning, Danny Taylor woke up before dawn and left the confines of his apartment to walk through the streets and around the city. He made a detour from his usual path to the office, feeling an indefinable energy pulling him in another direction and compelling him to lean against the guardrail− insisting that he saw what he normally tried very hard not to think of.

They all seemed to converge, at one point or another, to this particular place. It didn't matter if people were from the Bronx or Queens or Manhattan. Everyone came here to dwell on the moments no one could get away from; to remember that day, that morning, the clear blue September sky and the sun's distortion in the buildings across the street. To remember how calm, how impossibly peaceful that morning was.

As a consequence of his morning walk, Danny was the one who was handed their Missing Person's Unit latest case by a harassed-looking agent whose only preoccupation seemed to be to go home and sleep off a night's duty-induced headache. He got the tedious task of calling the police to run preliminary verifications on the accuracy of the story, and, though it was technically his boss's job to determine the plausibility of an authentic disappearance, Danny decided that case NY 7A-39151 would require the team's complete attention.

Outside, the first rays of light cast a dim glow over the city, and as he flipped open his phone to hit speed dial, he could not help but get caught in the view. He thought back, with sadness, to that hellish September day, feeling the same pain they all felt when they woke up with the certitude that something, here in New York, was different.

The towers were gone, and the city was scarred.

"Mmm− Danny?"

Jack's groggy and somewhat cautious voice on the phone brought him back to his immediate surroundings. Saving deep, philosophical considerations for later, Danny turned from the glass panels and dedicated his attention to the work at hand.

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"Bad news?" a feminine voice wondered as Jack Malone placed his phone back next to the key to room 327. In the light of day, the yellow-colored walls he hadn't taken much notice of the previous evening had taken a golden quality he could not help but compare to Samantha's blonde highlights.

She did little to hide the smile that spread on her face when he ran a hand distractedly through his hair, causing it to stick up at odd angles. Despite the seriousness of Danny's phone call, and the logical, rational voice inside him that wanted his mind to concentrate strictly on their new case, the part of him that had just spent the night with Samantha wished nothing more than to savor a few more minutes with her. Unable to take her eyes off her just yet, he allowed himself a last instant of undisturbed peace before he said succinctly, "We have a new case."

It was several moments before she looked away from his dark, inviting eyes, and jumped out of bed with newfound energy. She stopped in front of him, placed one hand on his still unbuttoned shirt and whispered, "Then let's go to work."

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"You were fast," Danny commented as Samantha entered the bullpen, her coat flung over her arm. She had the purposeful, vigorous walk of someone who has successfully filed away the previous case and is ready to move on to the next.

"No rest for the brave," she replied, skillfully avoiding a direct answer. She did not want Danny's profiling skills to turn to the reason of her early arrival, nor to the source of her morning optimism. Taking the time to give a long look at the picture on Danny's desk, she hung her coat, turned to her colleague, and inquired about the case.

Noting that she was doing a very good job lately at keeping her private life just that, Danny passed her the file he'd labeled NY 7A-39151. "His name is Mark Denkman, twenty-six years old, 6"2, about 160 pounds. He has light brown hair, brown eyes, and a distinctive scar at the base of the neck." He waited as she glanced at the picture for the second time, and went on, "He's a paramedic, failed to show up for a shift at 11PM last night."

"What precinct?"

"Fifth. The station's at the corner of King and Arthur." Danny made room on the central table, piling aside cold cases that would have to wait until this one was elucidated. "He lives at 388 Lafayette. It's at the corner of East 4th so we can safely assume he goes to work on foot. I already checked with the morgues and hospitals; they have no record of him and he doesn't match any John Doe's description."

Samantha, catching a glimpse of Vivian and Jack across the hall, quickly scanned the police report. Mark Denkman's supervisor had been the one to call it in, putting emphasis on the fact that Mark was usually very punctual. The police had visited his apartment but found no sign of a forced entry and everything in order. The absence of security cameras on Mark's apartment building would make it difficult to determine the time of his departure, but Samantha was convinced the neighbors would help, or that they'd be lucky enough to find him sprawled on his sofa after a night out.

The wave of optimism running through her once again gave her pause. Since when did she believe cases to be so uncomplicated?

Danny capped the marker after he finished tracing out the timeline they would be using, and she hung Mark Denkman's newly printed picture on the board. Together, they waited for Vivian and Jack to settle around the meeting table. Jack's eyes stopped briefly on Samantha, but he focused back on work before either of them let their personal feelings get in the way of their professionalism.

Once both he and Vivian had caught up with the information Danny had gathered, Jack questioned, "What about the family?"

"Mark's grandmother Josephine Denkman is in town. Born in 1924, married in 1943, widow."

"Parents?"

"Deceased."

Vivian, who had been listening attentively up to this point, chose this moment to take part in the discussion. "Cell phone?"

"We can't locate it. Either it's turned off of Mark's not in New York anymore."

"Anything else that stands out?"

Pleased that the question had been asked, Danny nodded. "I ran a quick history and found no middle or high school records for David, which is strange."

"Ok," Jack said, taking charge. "Danny, since you're a step ahead of us, I want you to dig further into this guy's background. Run the usual: bank accounts, phone lines, DMV. And try to find those missing records, they've got to be somewhere. When you're done, talk to Mark's supervisor. Viv− question the grandmother, there's nothing like family to help with background. Samantha," he decided, "We'll go to Mark's apartment."

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Outside, the air was satisfyingly warm, but a slight breeze blew Vivian's hair to the back of her head. Nourishing the hope that their missing person would be found alive, she realized that more than her own, it was the well-being of her colleagues that she cared about. The team could do with a happy ending these days. Their previous case had not particularly ended well, and the last couple of months had been emotionally draining. She was aware of the weariness behind Danny's outward detachment, and how his eyes too often stopped on the gap between the buildings not too far away. And if lately Samantha and Jack were more discreet in their displays of emotion, Vivian suspected them to be equally disillusioned.

Coming to an intersection, she stopped walking and observed her surroundings. No one could pretend things were still the same. More, if possible, than the background view, the foreground had changed. Everyone seemed on a constant lookout, waiting for something to happen and not knowing, in the meantime, what to think or feel. A part of this city, Vivian believed, was stuck in the past− living in the present while reliving over and over again the events of that September morning. And lives were stretched across the fabric of time, hearts aching from a loss so deep it was gradually becoming irremediable.

_What happened to you? _she mentally asked of the picture she'd brought along. Mark's features still held that bit of teenage innocence not uncommon for a man his age, but beneath it she sensed an underlying maturity and gravity she could not pinpoint the origin of.

His grandmother would have the answers, Vivian figured. Arriving in front of a three-story building, she looked up to double-check the address. Josephine Denkman, 616 East 110th, second floor. If the size of the entrance hall and the number of mailboxes were any indication, her apartment would be no bigger than most people's living rooms.

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Danny ushered Mark Denkman's supervisor into one of the interrogation rooms and closed the door. The chief wasn't as young as he once had been and the hair around his ears was grayer than it must have looked a few months before, but he looked like the kind of person who'd give his life for his men, and you had to have respect for a guy like that.

Opening the notepad he'd taken along, Danny forced his mind on the business that had brought them to this room. "Did Mark meet trouble over the course of the last few weeks? Disgruntled patients, resentful colleagues, accidents; anyone acting strangely around him?"

"Yeah, sure. There are always angry guys out there, y'know how it's like. Someone gets shot, they don't want to be taken to the hospital; you get domestic violence cases and angry husbands, blah-blah… But I can't remember anything in particular. Mark's a great guy," the chief said matter-of-factly. "He's the hard-working type, never late, never complains. I'm tellin' ya, something happened to him."

Jotting a few notes down, Danny considered with sympathy the man in front of him. He sensed no deception, just heartfelt concern.

"Has Mark mentioned any friends or family to you?"

"He has a grandmother in Manhattan, I think. Other than that… apart from the guys at the station, I've never seen him in anyone's company."

"How well do you know him?"

The man seated on the other side of the table frowned slightly. "I'm their supervisor, not their best friend, agent Taylor. When Mark came to me five years ago I knew he'd make an excellent paramedic, and I made sure he trained with the best. He gets along well with everyone at the station, and he likes the Yankees, which suits me just fine."

Danny smiled indulgently, making a mental note not to mention this to Vivian. "Why did he become an EMT?"

"You mean, does Mark Denkman have some deep, dark secret in his past that would explain why he works the graveyard shift in this neighborhood to make less than he would cleaning toilets at Shea?" A humorless note passed in the chief's eyes, and there was unmistakable cynicism in his voice. "I'm just he does, just like ninety percent of my guys. He just never told me what."

"How about 9/11?"

The chief's piercing stare studied Danny for a moment, his mouth tightening imperceptibly. "What about it?"

"How did it affect Mark?"

There was no answer. When he sensed he'd hit a wall, Danny closed his notepad, leaning against the back of his chair. It wasn't the first time he was faced with this reaction. No one was comfortable breeching this subject. In truth, neither was he.

"Did Mark−"

"I don't see how this is related to his disappearance," the chief interrupted bluntly.

"You'd be surprised," Danny said quietly. They'd had many cases in the past few weeks that were linked, directly or indirectly, with 9/11. People thought, and therefore acted, differently. Nothing was superficial anymore. New Yorkers suddenly had these layers to unravel and they had this deepness you hadn't cared to notice before.

Sighing, Mark's supervisor looked at his hands, and then, as if recognizing the necessity of the question, moved his eyes back to Danny. "I lost some of my men, and the others… they changed, sure. They're still coping, just like everyone else. But I don't honestly think that Mark not showing up for work last night has anything to do with it."

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Samantha took in the classic, messy bathroom and smirked at the pile of dirty clothes on the floor. How typical of a single guy, she reflected, simultaneously noticing the useless laundry basket and the empty bottle of soap near the washbowl. She went through the rest of the room's potential sources of interest, but found nothing that indicated Mark Denkman had been hurt, on medication, drugs, or hiding anything worthy of being investigated. The bedroom was better decorated than the bare walls of the bathroom and it had a distinctive male vibe, but nothing out of the ordinary stood out.

"Samantha, how often do you turn off your phone?"

She turned to look at Jack, who had emerged from the living room with Mark's cell phone. "Not often."

"And how often do you leave your apartment without it when it's in plain sight on the kitchen table?"

Her eyes narrowing with curiosity, she replied, "Never."

"It was turned off. The only calls Mark received this morning were from his grandmother, his boss and the police," he explained. "We'll have to check the rest of the calls when we get back. There's no evidence of foul play but everything from the unopened bills to the unwashed dishes indicates that he left in a hurry. The TV's still on standby and there's plenty to eat in the fridge."

"And he hasn't done laundry in a while, so I don't think he was planning on packing clothes and going somewhere," Samantha added, turning on the laptop on the desk. Meanwhile, Jack moved to the wooden chest near the window and began searching through the drawers.

Samantha quickly estimated that the list of emails on Mark's computer was irrelevant. "The only person he seems to be communicating with is his grandmother, the rest is spam," she informed Jack. "He's lucky a woman her age has Internet access."

"What's the date on the emails?"

"Mmm… they go back to last week. Josephine Denkman was inviting him for lunch on Sunday." That was four days ago, and it wouldn't help them much. "Are you finding anything?"

Jack shook his head, closed the last drawer and removed his gloves. Turning off the computer, Samantha suddenly had the sinking feeling that this new case wasn't going to be as easy as she'd anticipated, and her optimism began to fade. What they'd found, or more precisely what they hadn't found, only confirmed what the landlord had told them: Mark was a calm and quiet resident. As the exaggerating occupant next door had put it, their missing person could have won the neighbor-of-the-year award.

Moving to stand beside Jack, Samantha glanced at the world outside the window. It had the brown, green and yellow colors so characteristic of late fall, but the sky that stretched over the city was undeniably grey.

"It's going to rain."

"Yeah," Jack replied absentmindedly. Something else had caught his attention, his eyes carefully inspecting the contents of the bedside table. He took a couple of steps and picked up a blank notepad, holding it to the light. Coming closer, Samantha read at the same time as he did the scribbled notes that had been taken on a now absent sheet, but that had left carved marks on the top remaining one.

"Fulton Street," Jack read aloud.

Mentally researching the address in the complicated map of Manhattan she'd memorized over the years, she wasn't surprised when Jack did the same and declared, "That's not very far from the office."

She acquiesced. From Fulton Street, you could hit Broadway and from there, go to City Hall Park.

Or you could reach ground zero.

Meeting Jack's similarly disturbed eyes, she suggested in a quiet tone, "It could be a rendezvous point."

"Could be," he held her gaze longer than strictly necessary, smiling unexpectedly as their shoulders brushed.

But in spite of the warm feelings working in close proximity with him stirred in her, Samantha felt what was left of her optimism disappear. Pleasant as Jack's company might be, it did not change the fact that they had practically no leads to work from, and that Mark Denkman's life might well be hanging by a thread.


	3. Chapter 2

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_**Chapter 2**_

The past hours had been chaotic− blurred, at best. In a hazy state between shock-induced stupor and unconsciousness, David Marquez, known lately as Mark Denkman, rose unsteadily to his knees. It was… possibly darker around him than it had been inside his head when they'd hit him, and he could feel the harsh, unpleasant chilliness of bare concrete under him. Not trusting his legs enough to support his weight, he remained immobile, concentrating on the faint and almost invisible ray of light a few feet from him. A door, maybe.

Too weak to clear his thoughts and examine his surroundings more thoroughly, Mark let a pain-filled breath escape his lips. Unsure what the time was, or how long he'd been in this dark place, he once more lied down on the cold floor. Was it really dark, or was the obscurity in his head? A few fuzzy images flashed through his mind. A windy street corner, a hotel lobby with red colors… the quiet ding of an elevator breaking the silence... long corridors… He remembered dark shadows, a muffled scream− his− and something solid, hard and excruciatingly painful hitting him.

Like a bad dream, the memory now felt imaginary, but the dull throbbing on the back of his head was not. Shutting his eyes and praying to wake up in the safety of his apartment, he fell again into an abyss of darkness.

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At this time in the morning, Josephine Denkman should have been either asleep or cooking, busily preparing something that would taste like heaven and remind her that this was one of the things she did best. It was a fairly interesting activity that she had picked up over the years, and it kept her satisfactorily occupied− that was, when she _was_ cooking. She had woken up to the loud, strident ringing of her phone and the voice of a police officer. From that moment on, her morning had been comprised mostly of telephone calls, pacing restlessly around her small apartment and building up the most unimaginable scenarios to explain why her grandson Mark could be missing.

And now here she was, facing an FBI agent from the leather sofa that took up most of her minuscule living room's space, feeling both confused and apprehensive.

Vivian Johnson, expert at picking up the smallest of details, had been quick to notice that Mark and his grandmother did not look very much alike, but she hadn't really stopped to consider it. Mrs. Denkman had light blue eyes when Mark's were brown, and her delicate features were a contrast to Mark's masculine strength, but such differences were not uncommon when there was a two-generation gap. Josephine Denkman's concern for her only grandchild, after all, seemed genuine, having none of the fake honesty Vivian had often encountered in family members who had something to feel guilty about.

"So the last time you saw Mark was on Sunday," Vivian summarized when she had gone through her list of questions and felt the conversation coming to an end. "He came for lunch and left after dinner, brought you some groceries. You didn't hear from him in the last few days but didn't think much of it because you usually see him only during the week-ends."

This FBI agent, Josephine Denkman told herself as she nodded in agreement, was a conscientious worker. She was polite and dedicated and skilled enough to ask inquisitive questions without giving the impression that she was prodding. But as agent Johnson's eyes began to travel around the living room and stopped on a few family pictures on the wall, Mark's grandmother began to think that she was a little _too_ conscientious.

"I think I… I think I'm going to make some more tea if you don't mind," Josephine rose. Her seventy-seven–year-old legs were still strong and she moved without difficulty to the other side of the couch. She wanted to know that Mark was safe, she really did. But there were things about him and his past that, if revealed, would have devastating consequences.

Things she couldn't let the FBI find out.

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Studying Mark's partner as she moved in and out of the ambulance to secure med kits, Danny couldn't decide if she was edgy from his presence, running late, or physically incapable of staying still for one minute. Observing the station, he realized he could hardly imagine their missing person in this environment. If at first he hadn't given it much thought, the question now seemed legitimate. Did this kid really clamp arteries and treat gunshot wounds in dubiously safe neighborhoods?

"How long have you worked with Mark?" Danny asked as she jumped from a bus, brushing hair out of her face and dusting imaginary dirt off her paramedic's jacket. The large board by the station's entrance had told him that Mark's partner was pulling in a double shift, and finding her here had saved him some precious time.

"I dunno. Two, three months? He used to, uh, ride with someone else but we rotate every once in a while." Never stopping, she moved around the ambulance, making sure everything was in order, and Danny followed her as sirens wailed in background.

"How did Mark seem lately?"

A shrug was the only answer he would get, or so he thought before she said, "Good. Yeah, I don't know… Normal. T'was hard for us all after… you know," she said, emphasizing the words with a vague gesture. "Since September we're… s'posed to like gang shootings and sick grannies more than smoke and fire."

"Supposed to?"

Pausing for the first time, she appraised the agent in front of her. Digging a hand into the pocket of her uniform, Mark's partner shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. "Yeah… most of us do."

Conveniently, and just as he seemed to be getting somewhere, her radio came alive. Switching postures, Danny pressed on quickly, "Why do I have the distinct impression that you're keeping something from me?" He tilted his head at the open doors and added, "You wanna answer that call or you wanna walk out of here a suspect?"

She sighed, checked for prying ears around them and lowered her voice anxiously. "Ok. We, uh, got a series of kids last week who OD'd and it kinda got to Mark. Then yesterday afternoon, we got this call at the corner of Spring and Hudson. There were a few guys− including the dealer− around the girl and she was as good as dead. Mark started chest compressions, trying to get her back while I went for the defibrillator and before I knew it, he got into it with the dealer and punched him." She shrugged. "Nothin' that doesn't happen everyday around here, but it's outta character. Got me wondering why he was so edgy."

"Dealer got a name?"

"Yeah, Igor. Don't know his last name, but he's always hangin' out around Spring and Hudson."

"Is Mark a user?"

"Mark? Shit, no way. You ask me 'bout a couple of other guys I wouldn't be so sure. But Mark? Na. Too freakin' decent to get into anything like this."

"Where's the girl now?"

Mark's partner looked at Danny with an air of complete powerlessness. "I dunno. Check with the morgues." Tentatively, she tilted her chin at her radio, and Danny acquiesced. Letting another paramedic brush past him and climb behind the wheel of the closest bus, he watched as the ambulance drove away, sirens and lights on. He hoped for the sake of whomever needed assistance that Mark's partner was more collected on the job than she was when answering questions.

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As Samantha had predicted, it was now raining outside and the horizon was bathed in dreary gray light. In a surprisingly short amount of time, the team's work area had gone from clean and tidy to a cluttered, paper-filled, coffee-scented space that resembled his office. Emerging from it and trading one mess for another, Jack had the distinct feeling that Danny and Samantha were not getting much out of the stacks of folders piled in front of them.

Danny rubbed his eyes and tapped his pen restlessly against his desk, pushing back his chair. He'd cross-checked the information available on Mark Denkman, and all he had gotten from it was a serious headache.

"Jack, I verified with the high school Mrs. Denkman pretends her grandson attended. As a matter of fact, I checked with all the other high schools in the state and _none of them_ have a record of Mark Denkman."

Curious, Jack moved to Danny's side and peeked at the long list of schools that had patiently been highlighted. The absence of such a basic element from a missing person's past usually resulted in an uncommon case. There was definitely something fishy going on here, and as Jack's mind scanned through the possibilities− improperly kept records, falsified files, identity change− he realized something else: Mark's grandmother was lying.

"Anything from DMV?"

Samantha answered from her computer. "He owns a grey Taurus with New York license plates, but as far as I can remember it wasn't in front of his apartment." She turned her head and waited for Jack to confirm it before she went on, "I've put an APB on the vehicle. I've also double-checked Mark's phone lines but there's not much apart from a couple of calls for pizzas last week."

Danny chuckled. "How 'bout this: the delivery guy is a fan of horror movies. He went to Mark's apartment, kidnapped him, tied him up and chopped him to pieces. And the tape's on the Internet."

"No more caffeine for you," Jack said seriously, snatching the cup from Danny's hands. Giving it back to its owner amidst cries of protest, he allowed himself a smile before his eyes fell on the picture on the white board and his face became serious again.

"He's not part of any club or association," Samantha said softly, meeting Jack's eyes. "As far as we know, Mark Denkman patches bad guys and grannies, goes home, flips on TV and orders pizza. What kind of a life is that?"

It was a rhetorical question, but Jack had no doubt she was thinking the same thing he was: that a healthy, good-looking 26 year-old kid who could have had any girl, job or attention he wanted must have either an incredible sense of nobility or a profoundly guilty conscience to live a life made of such sacrifices. Jack didn't know yet what they would find on Mark, but it must be something significant enough to explain his lack of both social life and school records.

Since their search of the apartment had produced no conclusive result apart for the near-irrelevant mention of Fulton Street, Jack made up his mind. Knowing two opinions were better than one in the delicate matter of interviewing potential suspects, he chose to pair Danny with Vivian to investigate the most promising lead. "Pay a visit to the drug dealer Mark's partner mentioned. It wouldn't be the first time a kid in shiny armor tried to interfere with dirty gang business. And grab something to eat before Viv comes complaining that you're cranky when you're hungry."

"Getting right on it," Danny said with a grin, opening his phone to locate Vivian.

Following Jack out of the bullpen, Samantha fell in step with him. Without speaking, she made eye contact and silently asked where they were headed.

"We're going to pay another visit to Josephine Denkman; I want to know why she lied to Vivian this morning. We'll intimidate her a little," he said, not hiding the smirk from his face. Stopping by his office to take his coat and feeling her eyes on him, he wondered, "What are you thinking?"

She took a moment to answer. "I'm just hoping we're not losing our time like… like we did with Lisa Millardi."

He cringed subconsciously, the name associated with some painful memories, and many more regrets.

"Lisa," Samantha insisted when he didn't answer. "The woman who left for the weekend a few months ago with her secret boyfriend and asked her sister to lie to us so she could show up two days later with a husband and a suntan. And in the meantime we had to give up our searches on that little girl that we found dead the next−"

"I know," Jack said quietly.

Samantha gave a small nod as they entered the elevator, standing as far apart as the space would allow. Seeing the emotion in his eyes, she spoke softly, "I sometimes forget that you remember them all."

He didn't reply immediately, but when he did, she could not miss the sadness in his voice. "So do you."

-:-

-:-:-:-

-:-

Their suspect, Igor Zlotsky, was the type of criminal you didn't approach without keeping a watchful eye on your partner and a firm hand on the holster of your gun. It wasn't that he was worth less than his counterparts in tailored suits managing the world's finances a little ways south− only, different rules applied here. Five miles from the rich, busy, animated arteries of the city and the contrast was always striking. Five miles and though no visible line separated one neighborhood from the other, it was obvious that surviving took precedence, here, over living.

Igor Zlotsky promptly admitted to punching Mark Denkman, but denied ever seeing, meeting, or talking to him after the incident. He belonged, Vivian could tell, to the sort who could be guilty for someone else's disappearance, but his whereabouts for the previous night were quickly confirmed by high-quality video footage. Unless he had the gift of being in more than one place at once, which Vivian did not believe, there was no way he could have been clubbing uptown and abducting Mark Denkman at the same time.

As they made their way back to the car, stopping only so Danny could hand out a couple of green bills in exchange of a spicy burrito, they discussed what the dealer had told them and came to the most probable conclusion: that Mark Denkman had received a few punches from a delirious gang dealer during one of his many routine calls. The incident, though worth mentioning, had nonetheless been nothing more than a minor confrontation. As procedure dictated, it would fill a few lines of their reports; but as far as Vivian was concerned digging deeper here was a waste of time.

Before they reached the car, she sensed Danny's silence, and when he frustratingly threw his burrito's paper bag into a trashcan she glanced sideways at him. Out of all the members in the team, he was perhaps the most different. If Jack and Samantha had indubitably changed on subtle, elusive levels Vivian wasn't sure she wanted to interpret, Danny had somehow… lost the unwavering faith he once had in the city.

As if on cue he wondered, "You ever go down there, Viv?"

She stepped around a stroller and a group of young kids, giving Danny a sympathetic look. There was only one _down there _and it would remain _down there, _she supposed, because most did not feel comfortable verbalizing the name of the place.

"Sure… I go there sometimes."

All of them, she believed, went there at one point or another. Searching for something that could have been missed or something left behind; looking for the memory of a brother or sister, a colleague, a friend. All of them looked up toward the sky, missing the towers and missing the faces that had lived here, once, sharing hellos and goodbyes and exchanging formalities and smiles as they moved in and out of the buildings, in and out in a brilliant, endless dance.

"I went there this morning. I keep thinking… I keep thinking it could've been me."

It was something they all dwelled on: their luck, their continued existences. It was also something they failed to understand− the mysteries of life and death and how the latter could take so much and give back so little.

"You have to stop doing this, Danny. It just… it doesn't help."

His voice grew quiet. "Then what does?"

As they reached the car, her eyes traveled up and down the buildings in front of them, evaluating their heights, their sizes. "You gotta talk to someone."

Not for the first time, he thought about therapists, skeptical as to their ability to understand and help. He didn't believe in doctors that asked a million questions and pretended they had it right and… didn't understand a thing, really. He didn't believe in therapists who didn't know what it felt like to close a case, to keep thinking, I didn't do enough for this person. For her. For him. For them. For those who had woken up on a clear morning and checked in for work like usual, not knowing that on the eleventh of September, the city would be changed forever.

-:-

-:-:-:-

-:-

A large advertising sign for cheap ice skates drew Samantha's attention as they slowed down into the heavy city traffic, and she turned her head to follow the sign for as long as she could. The laced-up design was familiar, although she probably shouldn't compare the latest, improved ice-skate models to anything that had been labeled comfortable twenty years earlier.

As they slowed to a near stop, Samantha let a particular memory unfold. On a freezing January morning, her sister had suggested they skated on the frozen lake a mile or two from their house, back in the small town of Kenosha, Wisconsin. The ice was thin and the experience both dangerous and exciting and they both knew how Doug from middle school had fallen through and barely made it out alive the previous winter when the surface had cracked like crystal glass.

It was the last time Samantha remembered skating. The following month, the following summer had brought changes so great she still struggled to understand how profoundly it had upset her adolescent years. It had been the darkest, and arguably the most painful transition in her life. But it had shaped her, defined who she was and who she would become. That summer was the last time she spoke with Emily and the conversation didn't resolve around a man named Joe Henry; the last time she followed her mom to church, and the last time she saw a prison and didn't feel her heartbeat surging and a visceral fear gripping at her insides. She had lied about something important that summer, not knowing that for the rest of her life, she would forever wonder what would have happened if she'd done things differently. Because the truth was often twisted and rarely beautiful, but still it resonated better than the tissue of lies she had come up with, and clung to, her entire life.

Her existence was divided, now, into multiple moments and memories. Her time in Wisconsin, as innocently joyful and painfully upsetting as teenage years can be. Her time in New York, comprised of the moments she spent alone, and the moments she spent with the team; with Jack.

"Samantha?"

With some amount of shame, she realized that he was waiting for her. They had arrived in front of Josephine Denkman's residence and from the look on Jack's face, she should have been out of the car two minutes ago. She offered him a sheepish smile, and followed him inside the building.

Despite its northern orientation, Mrs. Denkman's apartment was surprisingly well-lit, the walls painted in light soothing tones. It was clean and tidy, with decorations on the walls and, if not outwardly expensive, tasteful and well-arranged furniture. After the expected introductions, Mark's grandmother offered the agents seats on the living room's sofa and chose a chair across from them.

"Well…" she began, looking first at Samantha, then Jack, her eyes curious. "I'm afraid I don't know what else I can tell you. I already spoke to one of your colleagues this morning."

"It's precisely why we're here," Jack said, carefully observing the elderly woman's facial expression as he spoke. "We know for a fact that you lied to agent Johnson, and that makes us question your role in Mark's disappearance."

Josephine glanced uncertainly at Samantha, but the female agent kept her face neutral. Trying to read and understand the woman facing her, Samantha decided that either she was very good at feigning ignorance, or she genuinely believed that keeping quiet was in her best interest. Either way, she knew something.

"You lied about Mark's background," Jack went on as Samantha stood up, this time walking around the coffee table. "You told us he went to a high school that doesn't have a record of him. And that makes me wonder what _else _you're lying about."

"He went to James Madison High," Mrs. Denkman said, reaffirming something both Jack and Samantha knew was false.

Jack's patience was wearing thin. "Of course," he said curtly. "Then they threw away his file, erased his name in their databases, lost his grades and forgot all about him. Tell me, what are the odds of that?"

"He went to James Madison−"

"Then you'll have no problem whatsoever giving me the address of his former high school friends?"

"He… he didn't keep in touch."

"How convenient."

"He's my only grandson!" she exclaimed. "I'm seventy-seven, I don't have anyone else left, agent Malone. Do you really believe I would want Mark to disappear?"

"Would you take a polygraph?"

Josephine swallowed. Then she said very distinctly, "Yes, I would."

Disbelievingly sharing a glance with Samantha, Jack silently asked her if she was finding anything from her discreet inspection of the room. Just then, her eyes fell on several pictures on the wall that had been taken at various moments in time. In a large frame was a happy-looking couple grinning as they held an umbrella above their heads; next to it were recent pictures of Mark and his grandmother together. On the far side of the wall, Samantha discovered a series of photographs featuring only Mark. On one of them, he was shaking the hand of a football player and proudly holding a banner with his school's name on it. It distinctly read 'James Madison High School'.

"Let me remind you that you're lying to two federal agents as we speak," Jack leaned forward. "I'm going to find out why you didn't tell us the truth, Mrs. Denkman, and when I do, you're not going to be looking for your grandson, you'll be looking for your lawyer."

Meeting Jack's eyes briefly when they received no answer, Samantha silently asked him to let her do this. Sensing his approval, she moved back to the couch and asked in the gentlest tone she could muster, "Mrs. Denkman, do you know where Mark is?"

Mark's grandmother shook her head. Samantha could sense Josephine's fear as if it was her own, and it left her feeling disconcerted and strangely vulnerable.

"Is there anything else you can tell us? Something that could help us find him?" Receiving another shake of the head, she wondered, "Does he have something in his past that could explain why he's missing?"

Incredibly she said, "I can't tell you."

The words, so softly spoken, took both Samantha and Jack by surprise.

"I really can't help you." She lifted tearful eyes to Samantha, and repeated, "I can't."

Jack glanced at Samantha, but she gave him a small shake of the head. No, she didn't think it was necessary to bring her in. Samantha felt Josephine had decided to keep Mark's secrets, whatever the consequences for her. There was something there just under the surface waiting to be revealed. And it would take them time− a few hours, perhaps, or a few days, to figure out what Mark and Josephine's secret was.

But they would find out.


End file.
